


Survival

by Stormbringer



Series: The Last of Us [2]
Category: The Last of Us
Genre: Ficlet, Graphic Description, Infanticide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:45:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormbringer/pseuds/Stormbringer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of a man desperate to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survival

It started so simply. What was a mouthful of food taken from his daughter’s plate? She was too small to notice, anyway, and would cry whether or not her belly was full. And what did she do for the family, anyway? Crying didn’t bring in supplies or rations. She didn’t work. The little brat could do without a mouthful or two. 

Eric cut her meals in half. He ate his own daily ration, and half of hers. His wife was too stupid and run-down to realize what he was doing. Oh, wasn’t she a happy thing, so pleased her little girl was eating so heartily! But, how strange, she wasn’t gaining any weight…

Eric supposed that’s what killed her: starvation. He stood by the pyre with his wife, but he couldn’t tell if he managed to hide his scowl. 

*

Would Eric have even considered shooting his brother in the face, before the world had gone to shit? If he had thought long enough about it, he might have decided he would have rather shoot himself than his brother. They’d never been close, but Nate was family. 

But at this moment, Eric wasn’t looking at his brother; he was looking at one of those things. Sure, it was pleading with Nate’s voice: “Please, you’ve got to help, me, please…!” It was gripping its right arm, just above the black, necrotic bite. 

Bullets were precious. Eric took two steps forward to make sure he wouldn’t miss. Nate’s face was turned up, eyes wide, staring straight into the surprised “o” of the barrel. 

*

What does one think about walking into a room with a body strung from the rafter, head lolling, tongue swollen? Eric didn’t think much of it. It presented a unique opportunity to scavenge supplies, perhaps scrounge up some medicine, a bullet or two. He’d been long enough under the canopy of death that the long shadow of the hanging man does little to shake him. 

The flies are a bit annoying, though. 

*

There were two ways for Eric’s life to end. Either the infected would get him, or someone else far more desperate that he was would shove him out of this hell-hole with a bullet between the eyes, or a knife in the ribs. 

He never would have guessed who that desperate bastard would be. He never would have guessed his wife – his tiny, emaciated, dumbass wife – would be able to swing the pipe with such force. 

She had him laid out in seconds, venting all her wrath on him. How could he? How _dared_ he? What kind of monster took food from a _baby_? His own child? 

Just after the pipe crashed a second time against his spine, Eric wondered who might have known, who could have told her. It seemed so unlikely she could just put it all together on her own. 

The third time, the pipe met the back of his head with a sloppy smacking kiss.


End file.
